


Life Finds A Way

by Bonymaloney



Category: Jurassic Park Original Trilogy (Movies), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Sex, Crack Crossover, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post- The Lost World, Post-Coital Cuddling, Pre- Voltron season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 05:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16847932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonymaloney/pseuds/Bonymaloney
Summary: Ian Malcolm takes a job guaranteed to keep him as far away from dinosaurs, Costa Rica and publicity as possible - resident mathematician at the Garrison. His quiet retirement is interrupted by a red haired force of chaos.Crack fic based on a prompt challenge. I loved writing this so I’m saving it from Tumblr.





	Life Finds A Way

If Ian Malcolm were the kind of guy who believed in curses as anything other than the human tendency to see patterns in randomness - or, conversely, to miss patterns precisely because they seemed too random - then he would believe he was cursed. 

He’d been the focus of not one, but two of the biggest news stories of the past twenty years. So he came to this “Garrison” place to work because it was quiet and isolated. The buildings were well lit, and there were clear lines of sight in every direction when you were outside. No blind corners, no long grass. 

Not that he worried about things like that any more, right?

So there he was, living the quiet life, tormenting the brass (Iveson was an asshole) by applying chaos theory to space combat. The applications of chaos truly were almost limitless. He had stayed friends with Sarah, Kelly was doing well in college, and everything was fine. 

And then the Garrison became the centre of yet another media storm, when an alien civilisation made contact with Earth. Five students, or ex-students, travelling aboard a vessel that was bigger and weirder looking than anything the planet had ever seen. And if the rumours were to be believed, there were other things on board with them. 

Malcolm encountered one of the things one evening outside the commissary. It was almost as tall as he was, and skinny, with big ears and bright red hair. It turned with an expression of polite curiosity and caught Malcolm’s eye, and in his mind the word “thing” resolved itself into “person”, leaving him feeling vaguely ashamed. 

The person, alien, man... the alien man - wow - smiled and extended his hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you!” he chirped. “Coran Hieronymous Wimbleton Smythe, at your service!”

Malcolm’s brain struggled to sort out the most bizarre fact from a list of several. The name, the purple eyes, the fact that an alien had a moustache...

“You’re, uh. You’re from New Zealand.” Malcolm had once had a very attractive postdoc from New Zealand. 

The alien beamed. “Oh no I’m not! But that seems to be quite a common misunderstanding. If it helps, I did in fact hatch on an island.”

“You, ah, excuse me... you hatched?”

A note of chagrin crept into the other mans voice. “Oh dear. I think that was one of the things he didn’t want me to mention... it’s just so nice to be able to stretch my legs and talk to someone! The Princess was getting quite tetchy...”

Malcolm realised his mouth was hanging open slightly. Everything he said seemed to raise further questions, and it took him a few seconds to realise Coran was speaking again. 

“You’re not one of these ‘journalists’ I’m supposed to be avoiding, I hope? I might have to kill you!”

“No, I’m not a reporter, I’m a chaotician. Name’s Dr Ian Malcolm, I work here, for the Garrison. I just... wow.”

“What’s a chaotician?”

“It’s, uh. The study of the instability inherent in complex systems. How tiny changes in a system can magnify to unpredictably huge effects.”

“It sounds a bit like -“ Coran made a sound that had far too many consonants in it, then frowned slightly. “Is that a human word?”

“Essentially a, ah, butterfly flaps its wings in Beijing, and in Central Park you get rain instead of sunshine.”

“What’s a butterfly?”

“Ok, let me show you another way.”

The commissary was closed, so they had to go to the officers’ club to get a glass of water. Malcolm bought Coran a beer, but the alien took one sip and spat it out, exclaiming something that you just knew from the combination of syllables was a curse word. 

“What are those...” he shuddered, “...bubbles?”

“You’re right, that was very earth-centric if ne. I just assumed that every advanced species would have developed carbonation. You want something else?”

Coran grimaced. “No, that’s alright.” He shot a further glare at the beer bottle. “I feel like I’m a weblum with a shuttle flying around inside me...”

Malcolm knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t ask. 

“What’s a weblum?”

They talked about the weblum, then about the balmera, which was apparently even bigger. All the creatures on Coran’s planet sounded fairly large and terrifying. He’d fought a lot of them,apparently, sometimes armed with energy weapons, once entirely naked and carrying only a knife. It sounded like some kind of special forces training, and his outfit did look a little like a sci-fi version of one of those Crimean war numbers, with the buttons and the long tails. 

Then they talked about earth animals and their respective sizes, and how animals used to be much larger, and Malcolm realised with relief and delight that this guy truly had no idea who he was, or what a dinosaur was. Being able to talk about them in the abstract like ninety nine point nine percent of the population could, can you believe there was a crazy billionaire trying to clone dinosaurs, can you believe it, ha ha - it actually really helped. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Coran said after a while. “I’ve been talking for ages, frippering on like a Bulgogian... it’s just nice to be having a conversation that’s not an interrogation. What were you going to show me?”

“Ok, so chaos theory 101. You’ll need to take off your glove...”

The atmosphere between them suddenly changed. Coran dipped his head and grinned at him, showing rather a lot of straight white teeth, and twirled his moustache ostentatiously. Malcolm shifted in his seat and straightened his steely grey quiff. He wasn’t sure exactly what had prompted it, but he was no stranger to the dance they were doing now. 

He’d told Grant once that he was always on the lookout for the next ex-Mrs Malcolm, but had judged the other scientist as too dour and uptight to mention that the list also included the occasional Mister. A wrong judgement, as it had turned out, but he could imagine Alan’s voice in his head now, urging caution. He’s an alien, Ian. 

He dismissed it. 

Coran tugged his glove off with his teeth and nodded. He had rather large hands, and Malcolm noticed that the blue marks on his face, which he’d originally assumed were some kind of makeup, were replicated as delicate arcs on the backs of his knuckles. 

He dipped his finger in his glass. “Bring your hand up here, like so. Now if I take a drop of water and just place it - this isn’t going to hurt you, is it?” Coran shook his head, his grin even wider and, honestly, slightly disconcerting. “And follow the path of the water down the back of your hand... ok...” 

Coran gasped and gave a little shiver as the droplet ran across his markings, and Malcolm could swear they shifted somehow. 

“...now if we repeat that, which way do you think the drop is going to go?” He was getting himself all ready to tease Coran about the imperfections in his skin, but the other man rolled his eyes.

“It’s going to be different, obviously... you’ve got me all ruffled now.” He gestured at the little silver ripples within the blue.” They stick out when we get cold, or angry. Or... you know.”

“So these marks you have. Do they, uh, do they go anywhere else?”

Coran beamed. “I’m so glad you asked.”

Malcolm hated being right all the time, but on occasion it could be spectacular. Coran followed him eagerly to his quarters, so inquisitive about his surroundings that Malcolm had to wonder how much of the Garrison he’d been permitted to see. But as soon as the door closed behind them, it was clear they both had more important things on their minds. 

Coran stripped his jacket and undershirt, revealing broad shoulders and more of those gorgeous blue stripes, arcing round from his spine across his pecs, ribs and belly. They were different from the rest of his skin, Malcolm realised, looking closer. The blue was smoother, slightly raised, almost like very fine scales, showing their silvery undersides as he stroked them and Coran gasped. He had striped, scaly flanks, and that ought to be terrifying, but it was fascinating. Fascinating, and hot, and as he peered closer he saw the way the scales were arranged in arcs and whirls of their own, it was...

“It’s a fractal pattern!” he exclaimed, delighted. He traced the flow of the scales and Coran moaned and lifted him off the ground as he kissed him. He was stronger than he looked and seemingly desperate for touch. 

Coran undressed him with dextrous fingers in between deep, hungry kisses. When he peeled his jeans off he glanced upwards at the sight of the scars, and Malcolm knew he was remembering their earlier conversation, shrewd enough to put two and two together when he saw obvious bite marks. To Malcolm’s relief he neither ignored the scars nor paid them excessive attention, teasing his lips back up Malcolm’s body until he was straddling him on the edge of the bed.

His cock was a little smaller than Malcolm’s, but girthy and ridged, with interesting stripes that were glowing the same iridescent blue as the rest of him.

The universe truly was a terrifying, beautiful place. 

Coran in turn seemed absolutely fascinated by his nipples, which suited Malcolm just fine. They ground together, Coran in his lap breathless and needy. His reddish body hair was groomed into a neat strip. Malcolm went more for the untamed jungle approach, and Coran couldn’t stop raking his fingers through it. 

“Do you have any oil?” he gasped at last, and Malcolm knew what he meant. He had lube in his bedside table. A man still had needs, after all, even if he wasn’t quite living the rock star lifestyle any more. It was an awkward angle to gain any traction, especially after his injury, but Coran seemed more than happy to do all the work, and Malcolm simply went with it and murmured encouragement, relishing the pale freckly skin against his own deep tan, the way Coran’s lean thighs flexed as he rode his shaft, the tight, intimate heat. He twined his fingers in the other man’s hair, pressing down on his tailbone with his other hand, and Coran cried out and went harder and it was so good. They were both noisy, and that was good too. 

Eventually Coran’s cries reached fever pitch, and Malcolm helped him out, jerking off his interestingly shaped cock until Coran shuddered and clenched and came around him. Malcolm gave himself over to his own release, laughing with delight at the sight of the blue alien semen on his hand. 

Coran stayed the night. He was fine as long as he didn’t try to leave the Garrison itself, he explained, gesturing at a slim black band around his naked ankle. Malcolm was appalled, but the alien seemed nonchalant. “If they try anything too nasty Red will just come and get me out. She’d do it for Alfor’s sake.” It didn’t mean much to Malcolm, but he was more interested in cuddling at that point. 

“Your people do, ah, cuddle, right?” Coran snorted and snuggled down beside him. 

He reached for his glasses when he woke in the night to the sound of hard, distressed breathing. Coran was asleep, but he looked to be struggling against something invisible, his face a mask of grief. It was interesting and oddly moving to Malcolm, who was used to being the one woken from nightmares. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, buddy, it’s ok. We’ve all been there.” Coran’s eyes shot open. 

“They’re all gone!” he gasped, and then blinked, and seemed to realise where he was. Malcolm touched his hair as he gradually calmed himself. 

“You want some water? Something stronger?” An owlish nod in response to the second question, so Malcolm slipped out of bed and padded across to the kitchen. He poured a finger or so of whiskey into a heavy bottomed glass - one of the privileges of being a non-military member of Garrison staff - and brought it back to the bedside. Coran eyed it suspiciously. 

“No bubbles?” He took a sip and grimaced thoughtfully. “It’s not exactly nunvil, is it?” He downed the rest, and fifteen seconds later was asleep with his head resting on Malcolm’s belly. 

“Who could have predicted,” Malcolm muttered, stroking Coran’s hair before he reached to flip the light off. 

“Me, apparently.”


End file.
